Dust in the Wind
by AGirloftheSouth
Summary: After a disaster, Sherlock and John have a serious problem. Rated M, mostly for language.
1. Chapter 1

A/N – Well here it is because you asked for it.

Dust in the Wind –

Now don't hang on  
>Nothing lasts forever but the Earth and Sky<br>It slips away  
>And all your money won't another minute buy<p>

Dust in the wind  
>All we are is dust in the wind - Kansas<p>

John sat on the curb with his arm around Mrs. Hudson. She was crying hysterically and he was trying to hear the fireman over her.

"About two weeks I think - they'll have to make sure it's completely aired out before cleaning company can come in. The wallpaper is probably going to have to come down, and the wall between the kitchen and the bedroom is probably going to have to be replaced." John withheld a groan. "We'll have more information for you when we get the final clearance to go back in."

John nodded and squeezed Mrs. Hudson's shoulders tighter. She let out another sob and he mumbled into her hair: "We'll figure it out." She nodded but didn't stop crying.

John looked up and spotted Sherlock across the street. He was still being questioned by the fire investigator. John could see that he was frustrated and annoyed and had absolutely no sympathy for him. It was all his fault after all.

The detective was covered with black soot and John could see little puffs of it billowing off of long fingers as Sherlock gestured. There were paramedics standing next to him and John knew Sherlock hadn't allowed them to examine him. He had to have some smoke inhalation, had to. He was Sherlock Holmes, though, and would ignore it. John groaned and patted Mrs. Hudson one more time. She pulled back, sniffling, and brought a tissue up to her face. John stood, offered her a comforting smile that he knew didn't look genuine and headed towards his husband.

"Sherlock," he interrupted and both men turned to him. "Did they finish looking you…"

"I'm fine," the detective snapped and turned his attention back to the investigator. John took a step back, momentarily startled by the tone, but just shook his head. He looked over at one of the paramedics and the man shrugged.

"Everything looks fine. I suggested the A&E just to make sure, but he refused."

"Because I'm fine," Sherlock snapped again. And John recognised it as frustration and embarrassment. Sherlock wasn't really angry, or even annoyed. Just humiliated.

John looked towards the investigator. "How much longer are we going to have to stay here? I need to get Mrs. Hudson on the train to her sister's and we need to try and find a hotel." It was almost dark and John knew that he'd need to find a shop to buy a couple of outfits for the two of them as well. The investigator stared at John for a minute, looking defiant, but then relaxed. The man sighed and turned back to Sherlock.

"You can go now. I'll need you to let me know what hotel you end up at so that we can get in touch with you if there are more questions, which there will be." John nodded, that was to be expected. His husband had just set fire to a building.

"Thank you," John said and pulled on Sherlock's arm.

"John. I'm not done here. That man…"

"Later," John said and pulled harder, making Sherlock stumble a step. The detective turned and glared at him, but John didn't care. It was taking everything he had not to just leave Sherlock behind. "Go get a cab. I'm going to collect Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but John just turned and walked away. He risked a glance over his shoulder as he reached the curb and Sherlock was doing as instructed.

John squatted down and placed a hand on Mrs. Hudson's arm. She looked up at him and he smiled again. "I've talked to your sister and you're welcome there. We'll drop you at King's Cross and I'll get you a ticket to Cambridge." She nodded and allowed John to pull her up. He'd been able to help her get most of the soot off but she still smelled strongly of smoke. It was almost over powering. It was going to be a long train ride for whoever sat next to her.

She took his arm and he led her to the waiting cab.

* * *

><p>The hotel room was small but it was cheap and since they were going to be staying here for at least two weeks, that was fundamental. Sherlock had said absolutely nothing the entire cab ride. He'd just sat across from John, arms crossed and sulking. John hadn't pushed, he wasn't certain he'd have anything pleasant to say and Mrs. Hudson didn't need any more upset in her day. Hell she probably didn't really want to see either of them again. John certainly couldn't blame her for that - she was too kind to say that though.<p>

John had gone with her into King's Cross and paid for her ticket. He'd bought her a tea and a pastry for the journey and a collection of toiletries in the Boots. When he'd returned to the cab Sherlock was sitting exactly as John had left him. The doctor had just rolled his eyes.

"You're going to have to bin those clothes," John said as Sherlock entered the room behind him. John placed both of the card keys on the small table and didn't bother to pull his coat off. He did a quick look around the room, examining the small refrigerator, microwave and sink they had. He'd have to pick up some plastic utensils and plates and some easy to prepare foods. They couldn't eat out every day.

When John turned Sherlock was still standing there in the middle of the room, not moving. John sighed and walked towards his husband. "Hop in the bath, I'm going to run to the store and pick up a few things. I have to get something to wear to work tomorrow so I'll grab you an outfit or two as well. We'll have a better idea of what we'll need when the investigators are done and we can get a contractor in there." As John spoke he tried not to think about the cost of all of this or how they were going to pay for it. He doubted any insurance would come through as it was clearly an accident caused by neglect. Sherlock's error.

The detective nodded after a second and headed towards the bathroom. John heard the water come on as he grabbed a bin liner from the small kitchenette then walked into the bathroom. He picked up Sherlock's clothing from the floor, pulling the cellphone out from the pocket and setting it on the counter. "I'm going to bin these on my way out," he said.

There was a barely mumbled "Fine." John took a deep breath and counted, trying to focus on the fact that his husband could have died and hadn't instead of on the fact that he really, really wanted to kill him.

John came back forty-five minutes later and was greeted by Sherlock sitting naked on the bed. Usually it was such an appealing sight, but today John could see the residual redness of the skin because of the heat of the fire. He knew it would fade, quickly, but he didn't like seeing it.

John set three bags from Tesco on the floor in the kitchenette then he tossed the bags of clothing at Sherlock on the bed. "I got us each a set of pyjamas, two pairs of jeans for you and a work outfit for me along with boxers, socks and a pair of shoes for you." He started to unload the small collection of food and kitchen items he'd purchased, trying to ignore the fact that his dinners over the next few days at least would be far from delicious. He'd had worse though - nothing could be worse that the Mess at Bastion. Nothing.

He heard Sherlock huff in the background and looked over his shoulder. The detective was pulling one of two shirts John had purchased for him out of the bag and looking at it with pure disgust on his face.

"I will not wear this," Sherlock said and John rolled his eyes. "It's distasteful."

"It's all they had," John said, trying not to be angry. It wouldn't accomplish anything at this point to be angry. He needed to eat something and stay calm. They could talk about it all tomorrow.

"Why would you think I'd wear this?" John turned at that and stared at his husband. He knew Sherlock was trying to grasp at something. He had been frightened and was now upset and embarrassed. He felt guilty and didn't like it so was going to take it out on John, or try to.

John wasn't going to let him.

"Then don't, be naked. I don't care." John turned back and set the plastic utensils and plates in the small cabinet. "It's all they had, I did the best I could. Maybe if you hadn't burnt the flat down it wouldn't be an issue. But you did." He didn't raise his voice, just stated the facts at hand.

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment and John didn't look away. Sherlock snarled before pulling out the pyjamas and the boxers. "These are not horrific, but you can return the rest. I will not wear them."

John took another deep breath, counted and nodded his head. "Fine," he said, snatching the bag and placing it on the table. He pulled out the clothing he'd bought for himself, knotted the bag and left it there. Sherlock stood and opened that package of boxers, made a face as he rubbed his thumb over the material but said nothing further. John grabbed a bag of crisps and his pyjama bottoms and headed into the bathroom. He waited a second and turned the water on, knowing that Sherlock would know he wasn't bathing yet. He sat on the toilet, opened his crisps and quickly ate the whole bag.

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were both fine. That was the most important thing. Sherlock coughed in the other room and John tried to hear it over the water. He knew there'd be a lot of coughing over the next few days. He shook his head and tried to focus on the rest of the problems. He'd have to talk to the insurance people and he'd transfer money to his savings account. He'd take some from Sherlock, too; the detective had received a very large finder's fee on some recovered painting last months. John had no idea how Sherlock generally spent his money, but there was no way he'd gone through that much already. He'd check the statements online at work tomorrow.

He was going to have to get Sherlock a cheap computer. The detective couldn't sit in this room all day and not have access to the outside world. He'd burn the hotel down in less than twelve hours. Sherlock did have his phone though, John stared at it still on the bathroom counter. That'd keep him occupied tomorrow at least. Angry Birds alone could do that.

He tossed the crisps bag into the small bin then stood and started to remove his clothes. The muscles along his back were tight, tense from the stress of the day. The realisation of how much he had to do over the next few days wasn't appealing either.

Contractors, he was going to have to find a contractor that could work as soon as possible. He groaned stepping under the hot water. He let it pound on his neck, let it release what little of the tension it could.

He heard the door open and Sherlock's voice filled the small space. "The shampoo is rubbish. You'll have to pick some up tomorrow, perhaps after you get me some appropriate clothing." The door closed.

John let his head hit the cold wall and he eyed the small complimentary shampoo bottle. It was a rubbish brand and was the perfect size to completely block the airway if he shoved it down Sherlock's throat.

He sighed and closed his eyes. He was suddenly exhausted, absolutely exhausted.

* * *

><p>John's phone vibrated on his desk. His first patient wasn't due for another hour and he had been seriously considering napping on the examination table. Sherlock had suffered body wracking coughs all night and the mattress had been lumpy and uncomfortable. He hadn't managed more than three hours of sleep.<p>

_Where's my clothing? – SH_

John looked at it, knowing exactly what his husband meant, but decided to play dumb. _In the flat, smelling like smoke._He sat the phone aside and opened up file on his computer. He heard the response come through but ignored it for, deliberately annoying Sherlock. When it vibrated again he picked it up.

_I mean the clothing you purchased for me yesterday. It was on the table. – SH_

And the second one: _John? –SH_

_They were horrific and distasteful and you refused to wear them. Remember? I returned them to the store on the way to work._John had known Sherlock was just being petulant because of his guilt and embarrassment, but it had still brought him some pleasure to return the items that morning.

_What am I to wear? – SH_

John stared at the phone and sighed.

_Clothing? Your pyjamas? No idea. Go naked._

_I cannot leave the hotel in pyjamas. Pick something else up on your way back to the hotel. - SH_

John started to type his response when another message came through. _And find out when we will be able to get back into the flat. - SH_

John stared at the message a moment and at the pile of paperwork sitting in front of him. He deleted all of his initial reply and simply responded with. _No._

_You're being unreasonable!_came through and John laughed at it, too loudly, too awkwardly, not a happy laugh. He set the phone down and turned back to the patient files. A second later he picked it back up and powered it down. He was done.


	2. Chapter 2

The air was cold as he left the surgery and the light weight jacket he had left wasn't enough against the wind. John groaned, realising he was going to have to buy a coat too. Maybe he'd got to Oxfam and hope for the best.

His phone was heavy in his pocket and he hadn't turned it back on since that morning. He knew Sherlock would be pissed about being ignored, and he'd probably missed a call from the fire investigator or the insurance company, but he didn't really care.

He was cold and he wanted a coffee. He walked into the little shop on the corner. He didn't look at the menu, not wanting to think about the fact that he was wasting five pounds. The line was relatively short and as John moved up to place his order, a small red-headed woman took over at the register.

She said something to the man making the drinks and then looked back at John.

"What can I get you?" she asked, smiling up at him. She had alarming green eyes and John was momentarily stunned by them, ignoring the ring in her nose and the visible tattoo on her neck.

"Um," he stumbled for a minute before opening and closing his mouth. Her smile grew as she watched him. "Just a, um, medium café mocha please," he managed. The green eyes stayed on his for just a moment before she looked at her register and put in his order.

He fumbled with the money as he paid her, his hands shaking. He felt his cheeks go red and tried not to meet her eyes when he handed her the money.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"John," he said and paused before adding: "Watson" for some unknown reason.

She smiled again as she wrote John Watson on the cup and handing it over to the man making the drink.

"Well John," she paused, "Watson. I hope you have a great one. Come back again. I always like making a man blush."

John paused before breaking out in to an embarrassed chuckle, but the easy smile on the girls face took away any harshness. She was trying to make him feel better. He stared at her another second before she turned and took the next order. A moment later a man handed him his coffee and he walked out of the shop.

* * *

><p>There was an Oxfam shop a street over from the hotel and John managed to find a coat there. It was a little big but it would suffice for now. He also picked up another outfit for Sherlock. He knew his husband would be more annoyed that there was only one and the clothing was used, but John found he didn't care.<p>

He stared at the 'John Watson' on the cup before tossing it in the bin outside the Oxfam and headed back to the hotel. He was dreading it and chastised himself. He was going to have to deal with Sherlock eventually, might as well get it over with.

He grabbed the key card out of his wallet and let himself into the room

It was a mess.

There were several plastic plates strewn about the room, each containing food in various states of consumption. There were a number of plastic cups about and the milk that he'd bought last night sat open and warm on the counter. Sherlock was sitting on the bed, in the midst of a massive sulk, wearing the chequered shirt John worn yesterday and the plaid pyjama bottoms John had bought for him. There were several pairs of boxers on the bed, and John's trousers from the day before which had been carefully hung in the small closet were now on the floor beneath the table.

John set the Oxfam bag at his feet and held up his hands. "What the hell is this?" he asked.

"I was bored," Sherlock stated and John's arms dropped to his sides.

"You had a telly and a phone you couldn't keep yourself occupied for one damn day."

"You were ignoring me," Sherlock snapped.

"I was working," John snapped back. "Making money so that we can pay for the destruction you caused yesterday."

Sherlock glared at John for a moment before turning and staring at the blank telly. "Clearly it was an accident."

John shook his head again and picked up the bag. "I'm not sure that lunatic playing with hydrogen gas and a blowtorch qualifies as an accident." He said it almost under his breath but he didn't miss the change in Sherlock's expression. And when the detective spoke the words had no emotion at all. They were just cold.

"Are you suggesting that I did this deliberately?" John set the bag on the table, reaching down to pick up his trousers and shake them out. They were too wrinkled and he was going to have to find a place to do laundry so he'd have something to wear tomorrow.

"Not at all," John said honestly, tossing them over a chair and pulling the few things out of the bag. "You don't always think things through. Most people hear 'hydrogen gas' and think '_Hindenburg_'. You hear 'hydrogen gas' and think 'flame thrower'. It never occurs to you that your more dangerous experiments might actually hurt people. You for example."

He paused and looked at his husband. Sherlock still had his arms crossed and was looking thoroughly angry. John continued, not masking his own emotions.

"What would have happened if the explosion had knocked you backwards and you'd hit your head? Mrs. Hudson would have gotten out anyway, but would you? Does it bother you that police officers or the fire brigade or whoever delivers the news in those moments might have come to the surgery to tell me, not only that my flat was basically destroyed but that my husband was dead?" The grey eyes flickered at that and John frowned. "Obviously not. I mean, why would I be given any consideration at all? I'm just John." His voice raised as he continued: "My husband almost died, my home was destroyed." He got louder still. "Why should I bother being angry? It doesn't mean anything. It's just my stuff, my belongings, my memories. I have no idea what I have left and what was destroyed, but you're right, Sherlock. The most important thing is that you didn't _mean_to do it. You absolutely shouldn't take any kind of responsibility. I'd hate for it to get out that you're a right old idiot."

John grabbed the bag and tossed it on the bed. "Here's another outfit. I don't want to hear a damn word about it, wear it or don't. I don't care. The coat is for me. If you need one, go get one. You're an adult. I'm going to take a shower and then I'm going to figure out where the hell I can do laundry. YOU," he pointed, "are going to clean this up and you aren't going to complain when you don't have milk for your damn tea."

There was still anger in the grey eyes, but there was something else as well. John thought it might have been the realisation that he was genuinely angry - and justifiably so. Sherlock rarely handled that very well. John didn't care though, he honestly didn't care.

He stalked passed his husband and into the bathroom. He closed the door harder than was necessary and turned the water on, hot.

Sherlock wasn't there when he was done. Instead he was greeted with a semi-clean hotel room. The bin was too small for all the trash Sherlock had accumulated so he'd piled it in one place on the tiny counter. The milk container had been emptied and was sitting next to the pile along with several empty bags of crisp. John sighed, grabbed an extra bin liner and dumped the pile inside. He set it by the door and would take it out when he found a place to do laundry.

There was a small directory on the bedside table that described local restaurants and such. This was clearly a hotel that specialised in the business travellers so John assumed there must be information on a local dry cleaner or laundry service. There wasn't any so he picked up the phone and called the front desk. While he was waiting for them to answer he looked into the Oxfam bag that was still sitting on the bed, the clothing he'd bought for Sherlock was gone, so the detective hadn't left wearing only his pyjamas. John looked around, not immediately seeing the pile of discarded clothing and finally peaked between the bed and the wall. There they were. He reached down to grab them so they could be washed just as a female voice answered the phone.

The hotel had a laundry room in the basement. John was delighted - he could go there in his pyjamas.

Sherlock still wasn't back when John came up with the small pile of folded clothing. He put it away and opened the small fridge, looking for something to eat. Sherlock hadn't managed to waste all the food so he heated up a small mug of soup, settled on the bed and turned on the telly. He selected a channel at random, grabbed his phone and, for the first time in hours, turned it on.

He was met, not surprisingly with dozens of messages from Sherlock. He scrolled through them, not really reading any of them except the last one. It was sent after John had got in the shower.

_Lead on a case, back late.- SH_

John stared at it, sighed and deleted them all. He dialled his voicemail and listened to his messages. One from Lestrade saying that he doesn't think that there will be any criminal charges. One from the investigator confirming this, but saying that they still needed to talk. Another from the investigator saying that the house would be released in ten days and that they could have a contractor there the day before to evaluate the damage and go over details with a representative of the fire brigade. John would just need to find a contractor and call to set a time. No items could be removed from the house until then. John sighed, he'd need more clothes, so would Sherlock. The last one was from Mycroft. John groaned when he heard the calculating voice on the other end of the phone. Mycroft was in America but would be back in two days. He had heard about the fire and that everyone was all right. Sherlock naturally wasn't taking his calls so he wanted John to know if there was anything they needed, he'd provide it.

John thought about it as he tossed his phone on the bed. He knew Mycroft would loan them the money but he didn't like the idea of Sherlock being indebted to his brother. He also sure as hell knew that Mycroft could get them into a better hotel, probably for free. Suddenly the idea of being confined with Sherlock in the tiny room was overwhelming. John took a deep breath and pushed down the anxiety. He didn't need that as well. And he was alone at that moment, and he could always go out with Harry or one of his friends if it became too much. He seriously doubted Sherlock wanted to spend that much time confined with him either. They were definitely a couple that needed alone time.

He'd talk to Sherlock about it later, when he wasn't furious. It was something they should consider anyway.

John rinsed the mug and set it on a small towel to dry. He pulled the blankets back and climbed into bed. He was suddenly exhausted and it was barely dark. He hadn't slept much the night before though so it wasn't unexpected. And maybe if he was asleep before Sherlock the coughing wouldn't bother him.

He was vaguely aware several hours later of his husband climbing into bed beside him. He was on his back and turned his head slightly towards the familiar presence. He had a flash of anger when a long arm settled across his chest - he was still upset after all - but it was too much of an effort to wake up the rest of the way.

* * *

><p>John was walking toward the surgery, the new coat surprisingly warm in the cool morning air. He'd talked to Mrs. Hudson a few minutes ago and she sounded better, and genuinely seemed not to be angry. Part of that was because she trusted John to get it taken care of and part of it was because she was drinking too much sherry with her sister. John would take it, he'd hate to add 'find a new place to live' to his already too long 'to do' list.<p>

He stopped at a corner and was waiting for a light when a woman moved to stand next to him. She was carrying a cup of coffee and it smelled delightful. Sherlock had been asleep so he hadn't made tea, there was still no milk to put in it if he had. He eyed the coffee shop on the corner, he considered not going because of his awkward encounter the day before, but shook his head. What were the chances she'd be there again?

She was and she offered him the same pretty smile and the same green eyes. He smiled as she wrote his name on the cup without having to ask him for it and it grew as she told him to have a good day.


	3. Chapter 3

John listened to Sherlock's voicemail pick and ended the call. He sighed, opened the search programme in his computer and looked up the number for the hotel. He picked up his office phone and dialled while opening the text programme on his mobile.

_Call me, please,_he sent as he asked to be transferred to their room. He listened to the ringing and when there was no answer he slammed the phone down. He buried his head in his hands and groaned. His mobile rang and he grabbed for it.

"Sherlock?" he said as he put the phone to his ear.

"I am certain that the caller ID on your telephone has alerted you to my identity."

John just rolled his eyes. "I found a contractor who can meet with the fire brigade, but he needs payment for the evaluation. I need you to take it by his office."

There was a sigh on the other end of the phone. "That isn't possible today. I'm working on a case."

"Sherlock, I can't leave, I have a full patient load. Just run by with your debit card, I'll have him send all the paperwork here and take care of it."

Another sigh. "John, I cannot possibly leave. I'm working on an abduction case. A man has been convicted of the murder of an infant boy and I must determine if he's innocent."

John covered his face with his hand and squeezed the bridge of his nose. "You can't step away for half an hour?"

"The man has been convicted of this crime John. If he's innocent…"

"Fine," John said, opening his scheduling programme. He had a twenty minute window when he'd been planning on eating. He could grab something out of the vending machines and make the trip over. He'd be cutting it close, but he could do it. "I'll figure it out. I'm going to use your card, I haven't transferred the money from my savings account…."

"Of course," Sherlock said and John rang off. His phone beeped announcing his patient was waiting.

* * *

><p>John was exhausted. His body ached as he walked down the short hallway and into their room. Sherlock was once again sitting on the bed. There was scattering of papers around the room, but the mess was obviously a "Sherlock Working" one and not the haphazard boredom mess from the day before.<p>

"Your card didn't work," John said pulling his coat off. "You could have let me know."

Sherlock was looking at a newspaper clipping and didn't look up. He just shrugged. "I don't monitor the account regularly; this is not news to you." He was right - it wasn't news to John.

"You received £20,000 for finding those lost paintings! What happened to that money?" John asked, sitting at the small table and resting his face in his palms.

He knew Sherlock shrugged again without having to look up. "I purchased the hydrogen, and some new lab equipment. I did buy dinner last week."

John chuckled. "Yeah you're right, Sherlock. Those Big Macs really set you back, that was it, obviously."

John lifted his head and met grey eyes. The tone must have given him away. "You do have complete access to the account. Look at the transactions if you wish." John nodded, seeing a name on the file in front of him.

Bruno Richard Hauptmann.

The name was familiar and John took a moment to try and recall the case. He must have read about it in…

"The Lindbergh kidnapping," he said, laughing. He opened the file and was greeted with an old photograph of the convicted man. He laughed again, there was no humour in it. He looked back at Sherlock and pointed at the photo. The detective's brow was furrowed in confusion. "The fucking Lindbergh baby," John laughed again.

"I fail to see the humour," Sherlock said. And John laughed even harder.

"The case you're working on, the man whose name you're trying to clear has been dead for eighty years." John chuckled again. "I fucking can't believe it."

"John…" Sherlock began, but stopped when John's hand slammed down on the table.

"You couldn't help me today. You couldn't go to the contractor's office because you're investigating a ninety-year-old crime. This really couldn't be delayed for half a fucking hour?"

"The man might have been wrongfully convicted. The quality of the investigation-"

"Was ninety years ago. You blew our flat up, I'm running around like mad trying to get it taken care of and you can't help me so that you can clear the name of a man who's been dead for eighty fucking years. Do I have this right?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "You're angry."

John laughed again. "FUCKING BRILLIANT DEDUCTION!" He stood and grabbed his jacket. "I'm going out," he said.

"John?" he heard as he slammed the hotel room door.

* * *

><p>The coffee shop was closed. John groaned and continued past, heading towards the surgery. He had work he could do, the hectic day had only added to his growing list of paperwork. He pulled his coat tighter and walked down the alley to the back entrance.<p>

He flipped on the necessary lights and sat down at his desk then looked at the pile of papers and sighed. He turned on his small desk light and grabbed the first one.

Several hours later his phone woke him. John's head snapped up and he looked around awkwardly for a second before blindly reaching for it.

"Hello," he said, trying to keep the sleep out of his voice.

"John?" came Sherlock's concerned voice. The sound of it caused a sinking feeling in John's stomach and it surprised him. It was a shock for him to realise that he wouldn't have answered the call if he'd known it was Sherlock. "Are you all right?"

John nodded and rubbed his palm over his face. "Fine, working on some patient files. I'm behind because…" he trailed off. _Because of the fire, because you're an idiot, because you're investigating a ninety__year old murder and won't help me. _

There was silence between them; it was uncomfortable with too much unsaid. After what seemed like an eternity - but couldn't have been very long - Sherlock asked:

"You'll be there all night?"

John sighed. "Yeah, I think. I'll just grab a quick sleep on the couch in the lounge here." He paused for a moment. "Will you be okay for breakfast? I didn't see what food-"

"I'll be fine." There was a split second where John was certain Sherlock was just going to ring off, but the expected click didn't come. Instead he spoke again.

"Good night." The harshness was gone - it was as simple as if he were going to bed and John wasn't. John's lips itched for the kiss that should have followed them, but it would not come.

"Good night," John replied and there was another moment of silence before the line disconnected. John stared at the phone in his hand and the sinking feeling didn't leave.

* * *

><p>Sherlock wasn't in the hotel room when John arrived that afternoon and he was relieved. He recognised that part of this was denial and a part of it was avoidance, but it was easier. All of the files of the day before were gone, not just cleaned up but disappeared from the room. There was a plastic bowl and spoon in the bin and a coffee cup in the sink. John felt a moment's relief that Sherlock had at least eaten something in the last several hours.<p>

John stripped down and climbed into the shower. He scrubbed up trying to use the soap and the hot water to wash the dread away. It wasn't working, this wasn't one of those problems that was just going to get better.

He leaned against the shower wall and closed his eyes. His mind drifted to Sherlock, wondering vaguely where he was. He knew he should call, knew he should find out if his husband was okay. He wouldn't though. He thought with a moment of panic that he didn't care, but he shook that away. Of course he cared, it was Sherlock. His Sherlock. That hadn't changed just because things were...

He stopped thinking about it, pushed the images away and stood up. He rinsed off completely and climbed out of the shower then slipped on his pyjamas and a t-shirt of Sherlock's that was on the floor. It smelled strongly of his husband; clearly Sherlock had worn it for a long time. He breathed in the scent and let it tingle his nose. It was a pleasant and familiar scent and John pulled up the collar to take another deep breath. He held it for a second before moving towards the kitchenette and opening up the cabinets to see what there was to eat.

He was about halfway through Mastermind when Sherlock came in.

"Hello," he offered as Sherlock placed a stack of papers on the small table. He tried to sound sincere but he knew that he wouldn't fool Sherlock.

"Hello," Sherlock offered, barely more than a pleasantry. He pulled off a scarf and a jacket he'd procured from somewhere and set them on a chair. "Did you catch up on your paperwork?" he asked, the accusation not hidden.

"Yes," John lied. He'd gone to the lounge and fallen asleep after speaking with Sherlock but he had managed to get most of it done during the day because he had almost no patient load. Sherlock just nodded and quietly stepped towards the bathroom.

John watched the door shut and let his eyes close. He tried to focus on the questions on the telly, but had lost interest. When he heard the shower turn on, he used the remote to turn the telly off. He lay back and brought the covers up to his chin.

He was still awake, although pretending to be asleep, an hour later when Sherlock climbed in next to him. He felt the familiar weight and the usually welcome presence. It was almost foreign, and it made his chest ache.

"John?" the voice whispered. John almost shuddered at hearing it. Sherlock sounded uncertain as to whether or not he was awake. A second later there was a hand on his side and moved along his stomach. It made his skin tingle and his stomach nauseous.

"No," he said, his voice shaking. The hand stopped immediately and then started to pull back slowly. John covered it quickly, pushing down the nausea and the hint of disgust in the back of his throat. He'd turned Sherlock down before, but he'd never not wanted Sherlock before. He never wanted Sherlock to know that he didn't. When the arm settled around his stomach and the weight pressed closer to him, John pulled his hand way and tucked it under his pillow.

He felt a kiss pressed into his shoulder and Sherlock didn't move away. John pushed down a cringe at the contact and closed his eyes. They were going to have to talk, he knew that, but it was just too much. There was too much to do, too much to worry about. He'd think about it in the morning, over coffee. It would be easier there, away from Sherlock, he could make some decisions. And she'd…

He snapped his eyes open and just managed to keep his body from tensing up even more. He realised with a flash that for the first time that night he felt good, and pleasant. And it was because of her.

He kept his eyes open and stared at the wall long after Sherlock's quiet snores filled the room


	4. Chapter 4

John looked at estimate on the desk in front of him. It wasn't the full estimate, but it was based on the initial fire report. The contractor said they did this as a warning to give clients some general idea as to what they could expect. The number was more than John expected, but not by much. It was more than he had, and more than he could get before the work would be started.

He rubbed his palms into his eyes and sat back in his chair. They were going to have to go to Mycroft. Sherlock wouldn't like it but there wasn't another option unless they wanted to take out a bank loan. He groaned, realising he was going to have to actually talk to Sherlock about it again. They hadn't spoken more than passing greetings in three days and John had no inclination to correct that. And he knew that Sherlock didn't know how to. The more he pulled away, the more Sherlock shut down. It frustrated him that he always had to be the keep things together. It wasn't just his job.

He dropped his hand and looked over at his phone, he stared at it for a long moment before picking it up and sending a message to his husband.

_Will you be in this evening? We need to__go over__the assessment from the contractors._

A moment later there was a response. _Have a case. Whatever you decide. – SH_

John shook his head, feeling drained already. _We need to discuss the financing of the repairs, not wallpaper. I need you to be there._

There was a long pause and John imagined Sherlock's frustrated face and the eyes rolling at the inconvenience of it all. It was Sherlock's way.

_I will be there when you get back. – SH_

John felt his heart sink. It was going to be a miserable. He considered replying with a 'thank you' but decided against it. Why should he be thankful that Sherlock was assisting in solving their problems?

He glanced at his watch - he had forty minutes before his next patient. John looked out of the small window and felt guilt mixed with the dread. He was going to go grab a coffee. He deliberated for a split second but it wasn't a serious debate. As soon as he decided his heart started thumping in his chest.

The thought of her made him feel good. He hated it, the guilt was almost overpowering in moments. But she was the only thing that made him feel good. John glanced at the picture on his desk. Sherlock had never liked that it was there but John always ignored the complaints. It was a picture of the two of them taken when they were on their honeymoon. They were in the bed in the small villa and Sherlock had reached out a long arm and snapped the picture. Only their heads and one of John's shoulders were visible, but they'd both been completely naked at the time. Sherlock had always been embarrassed by the notion that it was just out and sitting on John's desk. John had always found it humorous, nothing was visible after all, and it always made him smile.

He stared at it another minute and it brought none of the usual mirth. It didn't bring anything. There was an aching stab of guilt and he pushed it away without much effort. He grabbed his wallet out of his desk and headed towards the door.

She was making the coffees today and smiled at John when he walked in. He gave his order to the younger man at the register then stood at the end of the counter to wait for it. She smiled that amazing smile at him as she handed over his coffee. There was a surge of warmth through his chest as he exited the shop.

_Tomorrow,_he thought, _I'm going to ask__her__name._

* * *

><p>Sherlock was sitting on the bed when John walked in. Grey eyes looked up but John could see nothing in them. He doubted he was giving of any emotional signs either. He didn't feel much - other than the dread. He didn't say anything, offered no greeting. He just pulled his coat off and set it over one of the chairs. He sat in the other one and rested his elbows on the table.<p>

He eyed his husband for a moment and decided to get right to the point. "I," then corrected himself reluctantly. "_We_ don't have enough money to cover the expenses. The estimates are more than I expected and I expected more than I hoped. We can't afford it."

"They cannot get into the flat until next week."

John nodded somewhat surprised that Sherlock knew that. "They're basing it on the initial report, what will have to be replaced because of complete damage and such. We," he paused again. "We're going to have to borrow money. Perhaps, Mycro-"

"No," Sherlock said sitting up. "I will not borrow money from Mycroft. He won't let us forget it. I won't owe him."

"We don't have any-"

Sherlock stood and glared down at John; the flare of anger was the only emotion John had seen there in days. A long finger unwound and pointed at him. "I will not-"

John took a deep breath trying to keep his temper, and was amazed that it wasn't necessary. He wasn't angry.

"Sherlock, _you_don't have to do anything. This is _our_problem." He looked down at the table, at his fingers.

"I will not go to Mycroft," Sherlock insisted again. "I will not be in my brother's debt, John. It is not an option."

John held his hands up, "Fine then, Sherlock. What do you want to do? I'm open for suggestions. Do you have any pending cases with large fees, because if so, get on it. Maybe I can take a job at an A&E, work the overnight shifts and find some time to sleep in the early afternoon, after the surgery before the hospital. Granted that won't bring in the kind of money we need for months. Are you prepared to live in this," he gestures around the room, "for months and months while we save up the money to pay for the repairs and then wait while it's repaired?" He gestured again. "Maybe your brother could provide us with better accommodation but we can't call him."

"You're well aware of what Mycroft is like when I'm not in his debt! It will be exponentially worse if I am."

John felt deflated and just nodded.

"John?" Sherlock asked. John shook his head and felt Sherlock pull back, close off.

"Fine," John said. He rubbed his eyes again and stood up. "Fine, I- I don't know. I'll figure something else out. I'll- I guess I can go to the bank. Maybe I can get a loan for this. I don't know, Harry maybe. I doubt she has that kind of money but I'll ask her." He walked over to the small kitchen and opened the fridge. He wanted a drink, a hard drink. Scotch maybe, straight. A double. He shook the urge away. His sister was an alcoholic, he knew the signs. He grabbed the milk and one of their plastic cups. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, drawing him. He ignored the urge to turn around, standing at the sink instead and drinking his glass of milk.

"What are we going to do?" Sherlock asked.

_Now you care,_John thought with a flash of anger, but it didn't last. He rinsed the glass and set it in the sink before turning to his husband. "Apparently, _we_ aren't going to do anything. I gave a suggestion and you shot it down, without discussion, so we've decided that we're not doing that. Yet you haven't offered another alternative, so I will come up with one. It's my roll here after all. Sherlock makes a mess, John cleans it up. Sherlock pisses someone off, John makes the apologies. Sherlock burns down a building, John sells his soul to pay for the damages."

"The building hardly burnt down-"

"Yes, Sherlock," John interrupted, "I think that's what you should stick with. I mean it somehow managed to keep you out of prison. The building hardly burnt down, only our kitchen is destroyed and the ceiling above it. The floor of our flat and the ceiling of Mrs. Hudson's and the wall. What's a wall? It's only load bearing and will require serious repair work. But it wasn't the whole building, you're right there."

John saw the quick flash of shame, Sherlock had genuine remorse over what happened. It amazed John, and then he realized that not once had Sherlock apologised to him, or to Mrs. Hudson. The anger flared again.

"John," Sherlock took a step forward and John held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. Sherlock lifted his arms in defeat and just stood there. "I don't know how to..." he trailed off and John knew what he was going to say. He didn't know how to fix it. He didn't know how to make it better.

"How about and 'I'm sorry, John'. That'd be nice. Or an 'I fucked up.' Hell at this point I'd probably settle for an 'I'm an idiot.' I don't know, Sherlock. Maybe realise that you aren't the victim in this."

"It's my home too," he snapped.

"Then why did you blow it up?" John snapped back. Sherlock opened his mouth but John spoke again. "Don't say it was an accident. Candles cause accidents, forgotten cigarettes, random ash from a fire. Those are accidents. Not what you do, not your experiments. You knew it was combustible. Instead of going outside, or hell to the roof even, you set it on fire in the kitchen. OUR KITCHEN. So yeah, it's your home too, but you destroyed it. Acknowledge that please."

They glared at each other for a minute then Sherlock slowly backed down. He didn't shut down, just eased out of his defensive stance and finally dropped back to the edge of the bed. For a second he looked small, and it startled John. Then Sherlock spoke.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't- I was unaware of the immediate consequence of my action, clearly I didn't not mean for this to be the result." The grey eyes were serious, this was a genuine Sherlock apology. He wasn't even finished with it, when John realised with a jolt that it wasn't going to be enough. This wasn't going to make it better. Sherlock continued, but John ignored it. And when Sherlock stopped speaking he nodded and met the expectant grey eyes.

"Thank you," John said, shortly. "I wish that made it better. I really do, but it doesn't." Sherlock was terrified for a moment, then managed to cover it back up. John took a deep breath and held it, looking away, staring at the ugly picture of a country farm hanging above the small table.

"There are a whole series of problems here and your lack of an apology was only one of them."

"What else?" Sherlock asked, the desperation apparent in the voice. John wondered if it was also showing on Sherlock's face but didn't look back.

John sighed, shook his head, and then rubbed his palm on his forehead. He groaned before looking down at his shoes. "Well, besides our lack of money and our shitty accommodations, I dread coming here every night. I hate working all day, desperately trying to get this fixed, trying to fix everything and you are here 'investigating' a ninety year old murder. I hate that you come here at night and talk about secret codes that you helped Lestrade understand and the fact that Anderson is an idiot, and I worry about where we're going to be living in six weeks. I wonder if you even care." The detective's body straightened at that, stiffening. "This is _our_ home Sherlock. _Our_ problem. _Our_ Life. _Our_money. _Our_marriage." He looked up in the last second watching his words as they hit Sherlock square in the chest. He watched the impact as he muttered his last sentence. "And there's this girl," he added and watched as Sherlock's body collapsed in on itself. The walls went up, the devastation flashing in the grey eyes in the split second before there was no emotion at all.

They stared at each other and John watched the indifference flare into anger and then fear and become indifference again. "Who?" Sherlock asked and John shook his head.

"That doesn't matter," John said. "She isn't the actual problem, that's obviously it's between us." He gestured back in forth between the two of them. "There's a problem here."

"What's her name?" Sherlock asked and John just shook his head again.

"It isn't like that. It's complicated." He sighed. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "She works at a coffee shop by the surgery."

Sherlock looked away for a moment and then stood. "This sounds decidedly like _your_problem. I do not wish to discuss this."

"Sherlock," John said as the detective grabbed his wallet and headed towards the door. "We need-"

"_I_ need to walk," Sherlock said meeting the John's eyes again. They stared at each other for a long moment, and John knew if he asked Sherlock would stay. His husband was asking his permission to leave.

John turned his head and looked towards the floor, nodding. "Be careful," he said. "And don't be too long. We don't have to, we can leave this for now." He looked up again as Sherlock opened the door. "I love you." There was flash of surprise in the grey eyes before Sherlock nodded and closed the door behind him.

John sank to the floor


	5. Chapter 5

The receptionist, Emily, smiled at him when he walked in.

"How are you, Mr. Holmes?" she asked with genuine interest that indicated John had not shared their problems with her. Not that he would have any reason to - she and John were not particularly close – but Sherlock had an unreasonable suspicion that everyone knew and blamed him. The fire was his fault, he knew that. He accepted that even if he didn't admit it out loud. It had been stupid - he had not properly anticipated the effects of the hydrogen gas. He was ill-prepared for the flare up and the damage. It could have, and probably should have, been much worse.

John had also been correct when he'd pointed out that Sherlock had not given any consideration to his own well-being. Someone coming to Baker Street to tell him that John had been injured had been the worst moment of his life. He did not wish that for John. He would be more careful in the future.

"Dr. Watson didn't tell me you'd be stopping by," she said, looking at her computer screen. Sherlock opened his mouth to say that it was a surprise when she continued: "He's with a patient right now, but then he is free the rest of the afternoon. I think he said something about having an appointment of his own."

Sherlock frowned, he did not know with whom John had an appointment. He had not anticipated John having to be somewhere else. He usually knew such things. John believed Sherlock was generally indifferent to his daily goings on but that was not entirely true. He made it a point to know where John was supposed to be at almost all times.

Sherlock nodded toward the waiting room chairs. "I will wait to see him," he said and Emily offered him another smile.

"I doubt he'll be much longer," she replied. Sherlock hoped not.

He settled in a chair as far as possible from the man with the flu and the child who was likely to vomit at any second. He hated coming to the surgery because of all the festering disease. It never seemed to affect John though. John was rarely ill.

From his location he could see the glass doors that led back to the doctor's offices and the examination rooms. If John walked out with his patient, Sherlock would be able to see him. He paused, imagining John looking at him through that door and then looking away, not acknowledging Sherlock's presence, refusing to see him.

The detective knew that it would never happen, not with John. But the fear still tightened in his chest - the fear hadn't left him since the argument the night before.

John had been asleep at the table when he'd walked in. The telly and every light in the small hotel room were still on, so clearly John had not intended to fall asleep. Sherlock had sat down on the bed and watched John for several minutes, realising that he could reach over and touch him. He could hear the quiet breathing and smell the familiar scent. John was so close, physically. And yet he was so far away in every other way. He was so far away that Sherlock didn't even know where to look for him anymore.

It was terrifying and Sherlock had to fix it. He knew now that it was his problem to fix.

Seeing movement behind the glass doors Sherlock looked up again. A woman with long flowing black hair came around the corner, looking back over her shoulder to talk to someone. Sherlock wasn't surprised to see John following her. The woman wasn't talking to him though, but to the small child John was holding in his arms. The little girl, with dark curly hair, was rubbing her eye and had a bandage on her chin. John was bouncing her slightly on his hip and after a moment she began to laugh. She was reluctant to do so, wanting to continue to sulk, but John had broken through. Her laugh brought a smile to John's face and the whole scene took Sherlock's breath away.

They set a perfect scene; walking down the street he would have deduced they were a happy family, a husband, wife, and their child. There were subtle indicators that it was otherwise, and he noted them quickly, but others would not see that. Others would think they were together, that John belonged to her.

Sherlock's legs tensed with the desire to stand, the desire to insert himself between them and claim what was so clearly his.

He stopped himself though, knowing John would be even angrier if Sherlock interrupted time with a patient. Sherlock fisted his hand over the arm rest and forced himself to sit back in the chair. He turned his head slightly so he wasn't obviously staring, but managed to keep an eye on the scene.

John stopped at a small counter just inside the door, opened a drawer and pulled out small piece of paper to hand to the little girl. A sticker, Sherlock realised as she peeled it off and stuck it on her dress. She smiled down at it before leaning over and planting a quick kiss on John's cheek. He smiled back as he sat her on the ground.

He'd be an excellent father. Sherlock had always known that. Before they'd become involved, before he'd even known that he was interested, he'd always suspected the John would leave him for a house in the suburbs, a wife and children. Sherlock knew that it was something John had always wanted, always thought he'd have. He'd given that up though. He'd left it in some vague meadow of dreams when he'd settled on a life with Sherlock.

And always insisted that he didn't regret it.

Sherlock had moments of doubt. Their life was very much Sherlock's life, just with John in it. They were Sherlock's cases, Sherlock's experiments, Sherlock's environment. John was almost a satellite orbiting around him, with no apparent influence on the everyday goings on. John had changed him, dramatically, fundamentally, but hadn't changed his lifestyle. Not really. _No body parts in the flat_ was hardly a real inconvenience. Not even the crap music and crap telly were that much of a burden because he experienced those things with John and nothing he did with John would ever be all that horrible.

John, however, was pliable and easy going. He did what Sherlock needed, went were Sherlock wanted, rarely asked for anything. Well, he'd often insist that Sherlock eat, which could be tiresome, but was generally inconsequential.

John deserved better, he always had. But until yesterday Sherlock had never suspected that John might want better.

Sherlock's chest tightened as the little girl took her mother's hand and waved at John. John waved back, pushing the door open for them.

"Thank you," he heard the woman say in English tainted with an Italian accent. John just nodded - typical John dismissing the gratitude. Sherlock turned his head, stared at his husband. John looked towards him, their eyes locked, and there was a split second before recognition crossed his features. The recognition became surprise and then dread. John didn't really want to see him. Sherlock felt a fist tighten around his heart and it ached as he stood up, a constant, throbbing ache.

John gestured with his hand for Sherlock to come with him. Sherlock walked past him and stood waiting while the doctor let the door close.

"What's wrong?" John asked, looking up. His voice was quiet; there were examination rooms and offices on either side of them as they made their way down the hallway.

"Nothing," Sherlock said, alarmed that John's mind immediately went to disaster. Surely, Sherlock could just stop by to say hello or just to see him. Then he realised that he'd never once done so. "I needed to discuss something with you and…" He trailed off as John led them into his office.

John sat at his desk and Sherlock sat in the chair across from him. He wanted to go to the other side, perhaps lean against the drawers as they talked. John could reach over and touch his thigh; he could rest a hand on John's head. He didn't like that he felt unwelcome in his husband's presence.

They sat in silence for a moment before Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and withdrew an envelope. He handed it to John and watched as the doctor opened it and pulled the cheque out. His hazel eyes went wide as he examined it before looking back to Sherlock.

"I went to Mycroft," Sherlock said, although that should probably be obvious. John nodded and set the envelope down on the desk. Sherlock had half expected the revelation to make everything better, but was not really surprised that nothing had changed at all.

Sherlock waited and after a moment John sighed. "And what is the cost for this loan, Sherlock? What do you owe Mycroft?"

"Very little really, I have agreed to look over several cases on his behalf, two of them he has wanted me to look at for months. He also has an empty flat that he will allow us to use until the repairs are completed at Baker Street."

John nodded again and looked at the cheque sitting on his desk. "What changed, Sherlock? What was it that suddenly made going to Mycroft worth it?" Sherlock frowned and shifted in his chair. John knew what it was, he could see the knowledge in the hazel eyes, but he wanted Sherlock to say it. He wanted Sherlock to admit it.

"Her," Sherlock replied, managing to not snarl out the word. John nodded and looked towards the window. Sherlock had known which coffee shop John had meant immediately - he'd gone in there and seen the woman before coming here. He knew which one John would find attractive immediately. He hated her.

"She isn't the-"

"I know she isn't the problem," Sherlock said. "I borrowed the money as you suggested, I should have to deal with the consequences of the fire, not you. I should pay the price for getting it fixed, not you."

"I'm already paying the price, Sherlock. It was my home, too."

"I know," Sherlock said. He'd hoped to avoid this argument.

John sighed, shaking his head and leaning forward. He looked at the cheque and pushed it back into the envelope. "Are you sure about this?" he asked, holding it up for Sherlock to see. "I don't want to hear your complaints when Mycroft asks for something. I don't want you to think I've forced you into this as some sort of punishment."

"I won't." The sting of the accusation surprised him. He knew he could be difficult when being forced to do something he did not enjoy but he wouldn't blame John. Then he realised that he might do just that very thing. He might blame John later simply because he had borrowed the money for John's sake. He made a mental note not to do that - and he hoped he remembered. John did not deserve any of the blame. "What other choice do we have? I don't want you to take another job. I don't have any cases with large payouts imminent."

John nodded, dropping the envelope again and leaning back in his chair, looking away. He was so far away, Sherlock noted. He was right there, but so far away that Sherlock missed him.

"I talked to Harry this morning," he said. Sherlock was confused, Harry didn't have the kind of money they needed. "She's willing to get a loan and buy me out of the house." Sherlock stared at him for another second before standing in a grand fluid movement, startling John.

"NO," Sherlock snarled, smacking the desk with an open palm. "That is your house John! Your mother left it to the two of you. Why would you sell it to Harry? That's ridiculous!"

John laughed but there was no mirth in his eyes. "What would you prefer, Sherlock? It's the only thing I own. It's the only thing I have to barter with. Even if you and I never live in Baker Street again, we're obliged to fix it for Mrs. Hudson. She didn't deserve what happened either."

Sherlock took a step back, the thought of poor Mrs. Hudson shot through his chest. John was right of course, but not that way. Never.

"No," Sherlock said quieter. "We will use Mycroft's money and I will deal with the debt. I will fix this."

John eyed him suspiciously for a moment before nodding. "Okay," he said taking the cheque and putting it in his desk drawer. "I'll take it to the contractors this afternoon, I have a meeting to sign the paper work at four."

"I'll go with you," Sherlock declared, his mind cringing at the idea.

"That's not necessary. I will just be signing the paper work, you'll be bored." Sherlock shook his head. It didn't matter; he knew he must attend the meeting.

"I will be there."

"Fine," John sighed and Sherlock could tell he was concerned about his actions while bored. He need not be.

"Go to lunch with me," Sherlock said. The words surprised him, he hadn't known they were coming. They surprised John as well. It seemed right though, it seemed like it would be better. "Please," Sherlock added realising he hadn't exactly asked a question. "Please, go to lunch with me?"

John sat quiet for a moment and Sherlock could see the internal debate. He also saw that when John decided to go that it was not because he wanted to, it was because he could not come up with a reason not to. The pain in Sherlock's chest sharpened and he thought for an instant that there might actually be something wrong. Perhaps his heart was literally breaking. He forced in a breath and it eased somewhat.

"Sure," John said, placing his hands on his desk. "Yeah, that would be nice," he added a moment later, trying to convince himself. Sherlock grabbed on to it. John was trying, he wanted to want to. It was significantly better than nothing. "I, um, I have to sign out and leave a few notes. Wait for me here?"

Sherlock nodded. "If you wish." John nodded and stood. He nodded again, clearly having an inward debate. He seemed to settle something and his hand brushed Sherlock's shoulder as he walked by. Sherlock closed his eyes and knew the sensation wasn't lost on John. It was as if a firecracker went off in the small space. It took his breath away.

* * *

><p>They walked next to each other in silence. It was more companionable than some of their conversations recently had been though. Sherlock looked down, seeing John's hand swinging in time with his step. He had the overwhelming urge to hold it. His fingers flexed, but he stopped his arm from reaching out.<p>

He was afraid he'd be shaken off.

He'd remembered having the same fear years ago, when this thing between them was still so new. He'd wanted to tangle his fingers with John's on a walk home from a crime scene. He thought about it the whole way, secretly hoping that John would be clued in and reach over and take his fingers. Sherlock hadn't known how to begin it, he hadn't known how to start it.

Lying in bed that night, John had run fingers through his hair and quietly asked what was wrong. Sherlock had buried his face in embarrassment and explained. John hadn't laughed at him. Instead, the doctor's hand had simply traced down Sherlock's forearm before slowly lifting the long fingers and intertwining the shorter, skilled ones. "Just take it," he'd said before bringing Sherlock's hand to his lips and placing a kiss there.

Sherlock could clearly remember the sensation of the warm tongue darting out to taste him, and the comfort that settled over him at being given some previously misunderstood permission to touch John whenever he wanted. Walking next to him on the way to lunch, Sherlock wondered if that were still true, if his touch was still welcome. He silently took a deep breath before reaching over.

He caught the hand and John did not pull his arm away, which Sherlock counted as an initial victory. Sherlock moved his fingers along the exposed wrist, feeling tiny twitches under the skin as he skimmed over the smooth palm and spread his fingers easily between John's. The doctor's closed around him instantly, the grip tight. Sherlock gripped back with equal desperation. He felt a surge of relief as they kept walking and John didn't pull away.


End file.
